


Hairdos and Tattoos

by tielan



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Drama, F/M, M/M, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-21
Updated: 2011-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where John's a hairdresser and Ronon's a tattoo artist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hairdos and Tattoos

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the team_sga AU challenge in 2008.

 John’s very carefully not having a smoke when he sees the new neighbour move in.

And suddenly, he really wants a smoke.

He’s already had words with the strip mall realtor about the tattoo parlour, but couldn’t get the man to do anything about it. Never mind that having a tattoo parlour is bad for John’s business – and probably not so great for the tattoo parlour. After all, who spends an afternoon being pampered and than on the way out ponders, ‘Why don’t I get a tatt to match my makeup?’ And who’d want to get a tattoo at the place next door to where their mom gets her hair done, anyway?

So he’s leaning against the iron railings in the parking lot, watching as boxes of equipment are loaded off the vans and into the space that used to host a used bookstore – the reading club that used to come along every Tuesday and poke their noses into his salon to arrange their next treatment are going to get a nasty shock when they realise that they can still get ink at the shop…just not the papery kind.

After a few minutes of watching, it becomes pretty clear that there’s one guy in charge. Big mofo, lean and muscled, with a couple of markings that are obvious even from twenty yards. John pegs him as a surfer – maybe it’s the dreads, maybe it’s the tan, maybe it’s the wraparound sunglasses and the little shark’s tooth he’s wearing around his neck...maybe it’s just the feeling that if there was a wave around to ride, this guy would be riding it.

The man sees him watching – hard to miss since John’s the only person out in this section of the parking lot other than the moving crew – and lifts one hand in a wave.

John waves back, albeit reluctantly.

\--

“My God,” Laura Cadman flops over the front counter and fans herself. “Have you _seen_ the guy next door yet?”

John barely glances up from the computer. He’s blocking off the appointment book for next week, marking down who’s working and who’s not, who’s available when, and which customers are already booked in. The salon does everything from nails to massage, including hair styling and makeup, and to balance it all takes the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of Job.

He’s never been particularly biblical, so he gets along on caffeine and mule-ass stubbornness.

“Yes.”

In the moment of silence following his answer, he can hear Laura rolling her eyes as she picks herself up off the front counter.

“And that’s _all_ you have to say about it?”

“I’m in a relationship,” John notes as he notes that Sora Genii is down for next Tuesday, and makes a note to ask Kate in for the day. She deals best with the picky customers, and Sora Genii is _picky_.

“Just because you’re getting fed at home doesn’t mean you can’t check out the restaurant menu!”

Evan Lorne snorts from where he’s leaning against the door that leads into the kitchen. “Maybe the menu’s not to his liking.”

Laura rolls her eyes. “John’s bisexual, Evan. _Everything’s_ on the menu!”

“Considering what he’s getting fed at home, I wouldn’t be looking either,” says Evan with a grin that rapidly shades to innocence when John fixes him with a suspicious glare. “I’m just saying that, considering...”

“Considering that we have a customer at our door,” John says, interrupting as he sees a familiar pair of legs striding along beneath the neon sign, “we’re changing the subject.”

Laura sniffs as she dumps her handbag into the lockable filing cabinet by the front desk. “Spoilsport.”

\--

“Want one?”

John eyes the cancer stick being proffered to him by dreadlocked surfer guy. “I quit.”

“Mind if I...?”

He shrugs. “It’s a free world.”

The cigarette is lit and after a moment, switched to the left hand as the right is thrust out. “Ronon Dex.”

John meets it. The man doesn’t try to squeeze his hand, the grip is firm, and the dreadlocks swing rough around broad, well-muscled shoulders. John notices - he’s not blind - but he’s not interested either. Not in the man, anyway. The dreadlocks, on the other hand... “John Sheppard.”

“Why’d you quit?”

“My partner didn’t like the smell of smoke.”

Dark eyebrows lift. “So?” Dex sees John’s brief snort and grins. “How’s the hair business?”

“Hairy. How about the tattoo business?”

“Inky.”

As silence falls, John admits that he’s not too good at this conversations-with-strangers business.

“I heard you didn’t want a tattoo parlour next to your salon.”

“I didn’t.” John shrugs and moves so the smoke off Dex’s cigarette isn’t tempting him. The other guy watches him with a panther’s watchful gaze. “It’s done. You’ve moved in. We’ve had a few raised eyebrows that we haven’t plucked or dyed, but we’re not losing customers.”

“Ink’s done.”

“Huh?”

“A tattoo - once it’s done, can’t take it back. Gotta live with it.”

It takes him a moment to make the leap. _What’s done is done._

“Right. Yeah.” John folds his arms and glances at his watch. He’s got another five minutes before his next appointment; there’s time. He slants a look at the big man, unable to resist asking, “So, how’d you deal with the book club?”

The grin is all teeth, a predator’s smirk. “Persuaded four of them to make a time to consult.”

John chokes. “You _what_? But they’re...” _Old_ , is what he’s thinking. Tattooing on those women would be like trying to paint on wrinkled cloth.

“They’re game.” The smirk is genuine, and John recognises the passion of an artist.

He finds himself liking the guy, tatt parlour or no.

\--

Ronon eyes him in the mirror. “You’ve done dreads before, right?”

John checks over his supplies. “Ever done a tatt on a guy’s cock?”

“Couple times.”

“Same answer.”

“Any cocks I tattoo aren’t gonna be seen in public every day.” Ronon pauses. “At least, not anywhere that I know of.”

John tuts as he slicks his fingers with oil and begins working on the roots of the dreadlock closest to him. “Maybe you need to get out a bit more.”

“Tell that to my partner.”

“The stay at home type?” He can’t imagine Ronon paired up with anyone mousey. Sure, the man’s intimidating, but it’s all unconscious, and although he can wade in and break up a fight without breaking a sweat, John saw the way the guy handled the middle-aged women who giggled their way into his parlour to emerge with cute little butterfly tattoos on their shoulders.

Dex may not be able to charm the ladies the way Lorne does with his open, corn-bread smile, but John gives him full points for style.

“Something like that.” One heavy - and incidentally, perfectly shaped - brow lifts in reflection. “You?”

“Oh, we’re not big party animals most of the time. Go out on weekends, meet up with friends. Small stuff.” He sighs. “Although there’s this concert thing in a few weeks. Some singer that she wants to see and is dragging me along to. We’re supposed to be meeting up with one of her workmates there, she’s got it all arranged.” John grimaces a little as he works the base of the dread into as close a resemblance to the next portion up as he can.

“You don’t wanna go?”

“The music’s not my favourite. I just wanted to be consulted first. I mean, I might have had other plans for us that night.” John hadn’t, and he really didn’t mind. He just doesn’t like being left out of the organisational loop.

And he doesn’t like sounding like he’s complaining.

“Anyway,” he says, moving the topic along with the next dreadlock, “it’s acoustic guitar with vocals, which is usually pretty safe.”

“Got at thing for guitarists?” Ronon jerks his head at the posters of Johnny Cash, Chet Atkins, and Tommy Emmanuel that decorate the walls of the salon. Not your usual salon fare, maybe, but they’re classic. And John always has the music of one or the other playing in the hairdressing salon. Adds ambience.

“Yeah.”

“You play?”

“Just for fun. My partner’s pretty musical.”

“Mine works in a music store. Good way to get tunes.”

They start exchanging music tastes and discover that they share a passion for older-style rock’n roll, although Ronon prefers straight-out rock’n roll, while John likes the rhythm and blues.

It gets them through Ronon’s entire hairdo.

\--

Lorne’s driven away in his battered old Jeep Wrangler that actually _does_ see off-road action, Laura’s zipped away in her electric blue Saturn, and it’s just John locking up when he spots the wallet by the back door of Ronon’s gig.

He strolls over to pick it up. Soft leather, nice feel, although it’s packed full of stuff.

John flips it open to check out the driver’s license - Ronon Dex. Address, age, and photo. It seems the guy didn’t always have dreads.

He glances at the picture in the opposite clear sheet automatically and his eyebrows rise.

The man being squished in the photo is probably in his mid-thirties with the ‘soft’ look that certain men acquire when they’re heading for middle age. He’s got his hands thrown up and is rolling his eyes, even as Ronon grins between white teeth pressed down at the join between the guy’s neck and shoulder.

John bites back a grin as he knocks on the door. A moment later, Ronon opens it and stares at the wallet. “Thanks.”

As he hands it over, John arches a brow, unable to resist. “Nice photo.”

He shouldn’t chuckle when Ronon blushes and practically snatches the wallet away. But there’s something very appealing about the embarrassment. A moment’s silence follows as Ronon slips the wallet into his back pocket. “It’s not expected from a tatt artist, you know?”

“I know.” John lifts his hands. “Hey, I’m not judging. You know what they say about male hairdressers.” Then, because the guy’s so obviously embarrassed by the discovery - although what does he expect, carrying a photo like that around in his wallet? - John offers something back. “I’m bi.” He catches the other man’s look and shrugs. “So’s my partner. It makes for interesting ogling.”

Ronon grins and they’re cool again. He lifts the wallet up in what’s both a salute and a farewell. “Thanks for the return.”

John rides home in the cooling autumn, glad of the leather jacket that’s hugging his skin as the windchill factor shivers through him. He’s gladder that Teyla’s home and the condo heating is bringing the temperatures up to a level where at least he won’t continue to freeze when he takes his jacket off.

“You’re home early,” he says, slipping a hand around her waist and into her hip pocket as she comes out of the bedroom and matches his stride down the hall.

“Rodney’s turn to close up,” she tells him after a long, slow kiss that gives John a few ideas. There are lots of ways to warm up in the fall, not all of them have to involve heaters. “He owes me after last week.”

“Mmmh.” John moves his lips down her throat and nibbles at the join between shoulder and throat. Okay, so he gets why Ronon was chowing down on his lover in the pic. There’s something about that spot right there that’s just irresistable...

John hears the bubbling-up laugh hitch in Teyla’s throat as he bites down a little harder, the jolt of the switch from ‘just got home’ to ‘just got hot’, the hand that rubs the inside line of his thigh, the tight little butt that snugs into his hip.

“I believe that conversation is over-rated at this moment?” The throaty note in her voice does as much to turn him on as the rest of the package.

“Talk later,” he suggests, pleased by the way she nestles against him. It seems she’s in a mood to play, too. “Sex now.”

\--

“Teyla!” Laura leaps out the instant she realises who’s walked in the door.

John gives Lorne the evil eye when the other guy saunters up to say ‘hi’. He hasn’t forgotten the ‘considering what John’s getting at home’ crack.

“I may need a little space in which to breathe, Laura,” Teyla says with a laugh.

“You haven’t been in for ages! Look at how your hair’s grown! You could really go for the honey highlights this time! And your nails...” Laura grins. “I _have_ to tell you all about this guy. Med school. Bluest eyes on the planet and a real sweetheart. Plus, the accent.” She mimed a swoon.

“The accent always gets points,” says Teyla, smiling as she opens her arms in a hug for Lorne. The other man’s expression is suspiciously innocent as he hugs her back and John glares at him. “You’ve been working out,” she says when they release to stand at arm’s length. “Been with your trailwalking and rock-climbing group again?”

“Not as often as I’d like, thanks to Mr. Slavedriver here...”

‘Mr. Slavedriver’ makes sure she doesn’t have the concentration to listen to his employee for the next minute or so.

It’s not that he’s a jealous guy, it’s just that he’s aware Teyla could have her pick if she decided she doesn’t want him. She’s still on speaking terms with her ex-husband, Kanaan, and his family, and the AVO out on Michael Kenmore might give them some peace of mind, but there are days when John just wishes for a gun and no consequences.

He doesn’t keep in touch with any of his exes. Okay, so Larrin tends to call him up at inconvenient times with coy invitations to the S&M club, but an arched eyebrow from Teyla is enough to have him end the conversation and put the phone down.

“Mmm.” She nips him lightly when they come up for air and her eyes glitter with promises. “Maybe I should come around to your workplace more often, John.”

“Maybe you should get a room,” says Laura, rolling her eyes. “Wait, you’ve got a whole damn condo!”

“Am I interrupting?” Ronon’s eyes rest on her, a full-body skim that assesses, admires, and leaves it at that. John knows Teyla’s giving the guy the same look over. “You’d be Teyla, then?”

“That would be me,” she agrees, shaking his hand. “You’re the tattoo artist next door.”

“Ronon. Yeah. John, I brought over those designs you wanted.”

“You’re thinking of getting a tattoo?”

It’s not a demanding question, just a curious one. But John still feels defensive. “Thinking. Haven’t decided.”

“That’s why the designs,” Ronon offers. “You wanna see?”

“Maybe after my appointment.”

“Yes!” Laura declares, leaping into the silence. “We’re already late! And I don’t have half enough time to tell you about Carson...”

John catches her eye as she’s drawn away by Laura, and is reassured by the quick smile before she turns to Laura. “So you have been seeing him long?”

“Long enough. And the conversation - I can actually have an intelligent political conversation with someone for a change!”

“This is America,” Lorne calls after her. “Intelligent political conversation is an oxymoron!”

Laura’s response is to give him the finger. Which pretty much sums up John’s opinion of the political state of the union.

Ronon shakes his head as he rests his arms on the counter, but his mouth is upturned in a grin. “Never quiet around here, is it?”

\--

“So,” Teyla asks, stroking the skin with the tips of her fingers, “does it hurt?”

John shivers as the tenderised skin over the tattoo aches - and as his body reacts to her touch. Bad enough to be caught watching her pull her stockings on, worse when they’ve got to leave in fifteen minutes and she wants to examine his brand new tattoo. Her fingertips’ caress is both painful and erotic - one of the side effects of liking a little bit of pain from time to time. As Teyla says, he likes crunchy peanut butter as well as smooth. She doesn’t mind providing the crunch, either.

“Keep touching me like that and we’ll be late.”

“I do not mind if we are late,” she says with a mischievous smile as her cheek rests on his bare shoulder, “although Rodney will probably have something to say about it.” Her fingers skim across his belly and John’s groin tightens as she nibbles at the side of his neck.

As it turns out, in spite of the fifteen minutes of very pleasurable diversion where Teyla rides John to an arching, breathless orgasm while dressed in nothing but the stockings, they’re at the venue on-time.

John figures that sex before the concert is sufficient reason for him to be nice about the concert, but he’s still hopeful for when they get home. It’s one of the reasons he lets his fingertips slide up beneath her shirt edge to trace the soft skin above her waistband in tiny circles.

Teyla shoots him a look warning and John just grins. “We could dump your friend Rodney and just go home. Private performances all night?”

She laughs at that, and reaches up to kiss him - on the cheek, worse luck. “No, we can’t. Because he has just seen me and is headed our way...” Her voice trails off, and John has his nose halfway down her throat before he realises that something’s odd, and looks up to find the ‘soft’ guy from Ronon’s photo coming towards them, a smirky grin on his face as he holds his hands out to Teyla. A few strides behind, Ronon’s looking only marginally more civilised than usual, in a neat, dark suit.

He meets John’s querying gaze, grins, and shrugs as his lover greets Teyla with a familiarity that John instantly distrusts.

“You’re looking lovely tonight, Teyla. When are you going to drop your schmuck boyfriend and run away with me?”

Teyla grins. “When you can promise me that Ronon will not hunt us down and kill us both!”

The man waves a hand airily, but his blue eyes rest on John. “I don’t think it’s Ronon we have to worry about right now.”

Ronon’s mouth quirks. “Rodney, this is Sheppard. I told you about him.”

“Rodney McKay,” says the man with enthusiastic cheer. “You know, it’s really odd, but I never made the connection until this afternoon when Ronon mentioned knowing you and Teyla. Really, you’d think that, with all the talking Teyla and I do, we’d have realised sooner, but there you go, I suppose.”

Privately, John suspects that it’s McKay who does most of the talking in the ‘Teyla and I’ stakes. Certainly, the man barely stops long enough to let Ronon greet Teyla and John.

Teyla tilts her head up for a kiss from Ronon before she links her arm comfortably in Rodney’s and indicating the direction of the doors. “I believe our seats are over this way. Have you seen the program yet? I heard that Bardot will be singing a version of the Mozart aria _Voi Che Sapete_?”

The pair wander off, comfortably chatty, leaving the other two to trail behind them.

“He grows on you.”

“Like a mushroom?”

Ronon chuckles. “Something like that. How’s the tatt?”

“A little sore.” Enough to put him in a hyper-sensitised state this evening. He stifles the shiver at the memory of her tongue delicately laving the sensitive skin as John’s balls ached. “Good work, though. Teyla really liked it.”

The noise that emanates from Ronon this time is something of a stifled guffaw. “I bet she did.”

John grins as they follow the chattering babble of McKay’s voice through the crowd. Teyla’s definitely not getting more than a few words in at time. “Is he going to shut up enough to hear the concert?”

“Probably.” The glance shot at him is piercing. “I thought you don’t like this music.”

“I got a vested interest.” By which John means, if he plays his cards right, he’ll get Teyla as an encore for the night.

Ronon grins - the grin of a man who knows exactly what’s being said, even if John isn’t saying it. There’s a commonality in there, shared circumstance. “Why do you think I’m here?”

They saunter off, following their lovers through the crowd.


End file.
